Secret Kingdom
by darthsydious
Summary: Christine wants a divorce after her triumph at Phantasma, and Raoul, knowing he can't refuse her, agrees. He finds Meg on the docks, and realizing her to just as alone and hurt as he is, asks her to go with him when he leaves. Having nowhere else to go, and no wish to remain, she agrees. T to be safe. R/M, E/C
1. Chapter 1

_Well I've gone and done it. Written a LND fanfic, AND made it Raoul/Meg to boot. But then, these are the two characters I admire the most in the entire show because while they're both flawed and selfish, they are the most interesting, and are selfish because of what's happened to them. So they should just end up together anyway, and leave Erik and Christine to be all Music-of-the-Night-Beneath-a-Moonless-Sky together. Just saying. I've changed some stuff...like Raoul not being a drunk, or a gambler, because that was the one thing that really bugged me. R/M and E/C. Read on if it pleases. - darthsydious_

* * *

Marguerite sat at the end of the dock, her feet dangling off the edge as she looked out over the sea, the sun long gone now. In the distance, she could hear the cheers and applause from Phantasma. She felt her throat swell as she tried to quell her tears. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath, feeling herself nearly give way. It wasn't fair! In a moment of sheer anger, she decided she hated Christine. For one who claimed to be a helpless orphan, she seemed to have a terribly easy time of things. A husband who adored her, a child, and the man Marguerite loved more than anything else, still clung to Christine after ten years, ignoring all else. Even after being made to choose, Christine still was able to have her family, her career, and a musical genius writing the most exquisite music for her. No indeed, there was nothing that could make Christine unhappy now, surely. What did Marguerite have to be proud of? A brief stint at the Paris Opera house, so short that no one would remember a tiny, raven-haired dancer's solo in the ill-fated _Don Juan Triumphant_. And as for her 'career' in America…well, didn't that speak for itself? Half of Manhattan elite knew who she was, but for all the wrong reasons. The only thing she had of value was long gone now, the one thing every young woman keeps safe for her husband some day. But there was no other way. Wasn't there? She knows that answer. No. There wasn't any other way to keep them from sinking. No other way to buy time with the bank, with the press, with the construction, with the bill collectors. Marguerite listened to the quiet waves, lapping against the pier. Quiet. Calm. Deep and cool, and just within her grasp. She had so little control of her life; she suddenly realized here was something she herself could choose. Why should she continue? Why should she simply melt into the background again? It wasn't as if anyone would mourn her. Her mother perhaps. But even this thought did not comfort her enough to step away from the edge. Slowly, on wobbly legs, she got to her feet. Carefully, she unhooked the chain that stood between her and the open sea. She stood for a moment, finding herself alarmingly calm as she looked out to the midnight sky. The water beneath her feet seemed to beckon her. To sink beneath the waves, to let it bring her to a restful sleep she could not achieve anywhere else. She could swear it was calling her name…calling her name…

_Marguerite…Marguerite!_

There was urgency to it, one that worried her.

"Marguerite! Marguerite!" pounding footsteps and her name actually being shouted made her lurch. She grasped the post beside her.

"Not another step." She said to the figure behind her. "Please go away."

"I won't." the voice behind her said.

"Go back to your wife." She said quietly, forcing her back to the calm she had before. Her voice seemed to quake. How had he known she was here?! Who told him to follow her? "I'm just taking the night air."

"Marguerite." His voice was quiet and stern. "Marguerite, look at me please?" it was a question, not an order. Head bowed, slowly, she turned to him. The Comte stood in his eveningwear. Even in the harsh lamplight of the pier he looked quite handsome and Marguerite wondered bitterly why Christine could even be indecisive about her husband.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I would have thought you would be backstage, sharing in Christine's triumphant return to the stage." She did try to hide the jealousy in her voice, but if Raoul noticed, he did not comment on it. Instead he shuffled one of his feet, nudging a pebble over the edge of the dock.

"She…doesn't want me." Marguerite stared then, quite shocked. "Not backstage, nor onstage or anywhere else near her for that matter."

"What's happened?" Marguerite asked, absolutely shocked by his answer. Never in her life did she ever expect to hear Christine do something as stupid as push Raoul from her life. The Comte de Chagny shrugged.

"Many things, some of them my fault."

"The debt you mean." Marguerite said, before she could stop herself. Raoul looked up

"What debt?" then he nodded realizing. "Oh, yes. The papers would know of that by now wouldn't they?" he sighed, coming to stand beside her. "It is true, my family is destitute. My father, before he passed on, was invested in what seemed to be very good stock. Unfortunately he'd been swindled. By the time I inherited his title, it was too late. We've had to sell everything."

"I'm sorry then." She said quietly. He shrugged.

"It is not so much that I mind the money is gone. It wasn't father's fault. But I feel a great burden in being unable to care for my family. It does hurt one's pride, knowing my wife-" he paused, retracing his words, "knowing Christine had to return to the stage. The only reason we came here was because she had made a deal. Our debts erased if she sang for Him." Marguerite felt bitterness in her heart again. Her debut had been pushed aside because of Christine. She felt as if her words were stopped in her throat. With great difficult, she folded her hands neatly in her lap.

"Judging by the noise coming from the theater, I take it she's done admirably well."  
"Yes." He said. "Yes she sang beautifully."

"I would expect nothing less." She said, tears rolling down her cheeks. Quickly wiping them away with the back of her hand, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"I went to see her afterwards." He said, "She'd seemed so much like she was all those years ago in Paris, when we were first married. Happy and shining." His smile was bittersweet "But I seemed to be late in congratulating her. She was already…in someone else's embrace at the time." Marguerite turned to him then, appalled, shocked, and hurt for him and herself then. "I never thought it could hurt so very much to lose someone you love." He said quietly, looking out at the sea. "I have lost dear ones before, relatives, friends, and it did hurt." He said "But…it's all very different this time. I built a life with her…we have a child…for her to dismiss it so easily-" his palm over his chest, over his heart. "I always thought it was a turn of phrase, to say the heart aches…"

"One does learn to live with it." Marguerite replied, unable to stop herself, and he looked at her, surprised. She met his gaze now.

"How?" she found her eyes wet again,

"One…painful day at a time." Wiping her cheek again. "There are always distractions, yours I imagine might be more pleasant than mine." She didn't want to talk to him about her troubles. She felt she would embarrass him and push him away if she did. So she changed the subject. "What about Gustave?" This seemed to nearly break him then, and Raul took a moment to compose himself, turning away and then swiveling back to face her.

"Christine wishes for him to stay with her. She wants him to stay with both of them." His eyes were red and he chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, willing the hurt still so fresh not to break him until he was in private. "The debts are paid, that I have been promised. I have my dignity back now." He attempted a smile, almost laughing bitterly "I would take back all of my debts if it meant being a family again."

"Where will you go?" Marguerite blurted out. He looked over at her, shrugging.

"Once the papers are signed…" Marguerite realized he meant papers for divorce "I will return to France. I have enough now to buy a home. Live out the remainder of my life quietly and comfortably. I've always enjoyed the sea, perhaps I'll go to Trouville or Nice." He sighed heavily, resolve slowly creeping over him. "What about you? Will you continue at Phantasma?" The very thought of having to work in the same place as Christine, every day watching her and Erik happily living as man and wife made her sick and bitter. No. She couldn't bear that life. A life spent in the background, forever known as "The Opener for Christine Daae".

"I don't think so." She said, keeping her voice even. She put on a smile. "You know me…I'm a dancer…I'm sure there is work for me somewhere." Raoul looked at her suddenly. She was not as young as she was ten years ago. He knew quite well that the career of a dancer averaged eight or ten years. A slow fear settled over him that whispered she was lying. That she knew quite well her career was over and her purpose in coming to the pier as he suspected was not to take the midnight air.

"What about your mother?" he asked

"She'll stay here." Tears again in her eyes, it was not the first time he'd noticed either. "She's happy here. She doesn't have anything against Phantasma. A few…tiffs with the manager." She gave a watery smile. "Nothing she can't solve."

"They'll miss you terribly." She gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Me?! I doubt very much they'll miss _me_, monsieur." Her hand on the post, knuckles turning white as she gripped it. "They'll miss…the money I brought in. The money I earned offstage." A smile he couldn't read spread across her face. "The 'Oo La, La Girl' makes special performances, don't you know?" her smile turned into a grimace as she tried to hold back tears, tried to keep her composure. "Sometimes three times a night, Monsieur." Realization dawned, and Raoul could only stare, horrified at the shell that was Marguerite, thoroughly beaten and spat out by the workings of Fantasma. "I kept them all from shutting us down. Closing down his dream. I curried favor with the press, with the banks, with the investors…"

"Marguerite-"

"I did it because I thought…if I gave something so precious…he'd find a way to forget how she left. He'd realize that there are others who love him, who would move heaven and earth to hear him sing for me…the way he sang for her." Sinking to her knees, she held herself, rocking back and forth. Through blurry eyes, she looked out again to the sea. "Isn't it calm, Raoul?" she murmured. "Calm and cool and deep. How many times I've sat on this pier and wondered how long it would take for the sea to wash me away? Wash me away from the world. Would anyone notice, or even care?" She felt warm hands on her arms, drawing her up to her feet, pulling her away from the edge of the pier.

"I would care." He said quietly. Her face was still turned to the sea. A hand under her chin, he made her look away. "I would care very much." She looked at him, searching his eyes. She saw pity and love, and indeed truth. If there was anything in the world that she could be certain of, it was that Raoul de Chagny never lied. At this, she began to weep, head against him. His arms about her slender frame, he soothed her back. His cheek against her soft hair. He found himself wondering if this was the first time she had even been held by anyone other than her mother. The thought alone made him hurt for her. Ten years of servitude to a man that would never love her, ten years under his thumb, giving everything in the hopes that someday he might notice. Even Raoul could not say he had a life so upsetting as that. There were times that he and Christine argued, there were times when the worry that they would always be in debt seemed to swallow him whole. But his pain seemed to dim in comparison to Marguerite's. "Come with me." Raoul found himself saying, and he realized he meant it. Marguerite lifted her head, cheeks wet. Surprise evident, she blinked.

"What did you say?"

"Come away with me to France." He repeated. "There isn't anything for either of us here." He still held her as he spoke. "As soon as the papers are signed, we'll go away to France, or Spain, or Italy or wherever you wish to go. We'll start a new life, Marguerite. Together." She was quiet for a long time. He wondered if he'd insulted her. "What is it?" he asked, seeing her want to ask something but hesitating.

"Will…will I be your wife?" she asked softly. Raoul looked upon her, a little hurt that she would think him crass enough to only want her beside him as a mistress.

"Of course you will be." He said, letting the obviousness in his voice be heard. "How else would we live together?" relief washed over her, and she let out a gasping breath.

"I will be a wife." She said, this time tears of joy began to fall and she smiled. "A wife, I shall be your wife?"

"Yes, Marguerite."

"May…may I kiss you please?" she asked. He nodded, finding himself touched by her question. He'd never kissed anyone but Christine. Marguerite rose on tip-toe and he realized then how small she was in comparison to the soprano. Pressing her little mouth to his cheek, she settled back on her heels, blushing furiously.

They stood on the pier for some time, dreading going back to Phantasma. But at last, Raoul said they must, they would be looking for Marguerite, and he must collect his things from the apartment. He would stay at a hotel in Manhattan until the paperwork was finished. When they arrived at the park, they found things as they usually were. Much to Raoul's surprise, the only people concerned for Marguerite's wellbeing was her mother, and Christine. Spotting them, Christine hurried over, embracing her friend

"Oh Marguerite! We've been looking everywhere for you!" Christine said, "Your mother has been so worried!"

"I'm sorry." Marguerite said, somewhat numbly. "I went for a walk. But I'm fine now. Raoul brought me back." Christine suddenly looked at Raoul, realizing he was there and she looked terribly awkward and embarrassed.

"Oh. Yes. Thank you Raoul. That was good of you."

"I only came to return Marguerite, and to collect my things from the apartment." He said; his tone was unreadable; his eyes though were searching, penetrating Christine's obvious discomfort. She hid her own from him, nodding quickly.

"Yes. Yes of course."

"You have arrangements?" Marguerite asked suddenly, turning to him. "There is someone in Manhattan who owes me a favor. I could fix it."

"Arrangements have already been made for the Comte de Chagny." A voice said behind them and they all turned to see Erik in the doorway of his office. "I apologize for the delay in them of course, but I have a carriage waiting to take you to Manhattan to-day, as soon as you like. I understand the Waldorf-Astoria is known for its impeccable service." There was no malice in his voice, much to everyone's surprise.

"Indeed." Raoul said. "I am sure it's only rival has been that of the apartments here in Phantasma. You would be wise to open your own seaside resort here. I am sure many would be thrilled to reside in such a place." The tension was thick, and Christine stood between the both of them, gaze flicking from Erik to Raoul and back again.

"Thank you for returning Little Giry." Erik said, and then looked to her "Your mother was quite concerned. I trust you'll go and find her now and put her fears to rest before she has the pier drug for your body." He looked her over, hair mussed from the wind, her face white with cold. "What have you to say for yourself? You've caused your mama and Christine a great deal of worry." Marguerite couldn't speak for a moment, and Raoul saw her hands fold behind her back, nails digging into her skin.

"I'm sorry to cause any trouble." She said very quietly. "I'll go and find Mama now." Woodenly, she turned away, her gait measured and precise.

"I hope you won't be too harsh on her." Raoul said and Christine and Erik both turned to him. "She's had a trying night. After all it was her premiere too." He smiled comfortably, hiding his anger at the both of them. The carelessness that they exacted upon Marguerite was too much for him and he wanted dearly for them to understand how close they had come to driving her over the edge. "Did you see it?" he went on "She was very good. I shouldn't be surprised if she would have stolen the show, had Christine not sung. No one can outshine you, my dear." Christine looked ashamed then, and to his surprise, so did Erik. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go and pack my things." And he left, bowing at the neck to Christine, and nodding curtly to Erik.

"I'll go and help him." Christine murmured. Erik grasped her hand, but she squeezed his fingers. "It's alright dear. I'll be back shortly." She smiled faintly "He never packs anything neatly. His shirts will be all a bundle." It was a lie of course. Raoul liked things neat and tidy in his trunk. But Christine needed to speak with him.


	2. Chapter 2

_This will be a relatively short story (so far...I can't decide if I want to follow Raoul and Meg through their marriage or just leave them happily) but expect at least two more chapters. If I end up with an epilogue at least I'll be pleased. But anyway here's chapter two! Also, thanks so much for the lovely reviews, and follows and favorites! I'm so glad to see so many people shipping Raoul/Meg! - darthsydious_

* * *

In the apartment given them, Raoul opened the wardrobe, removing his trousers from the hanger and folding them neatly in his trunk. The door opened quietly and he glanced up to see Christine there. Silence stretched uncomfortably between them. If she had come to apologize for her conduct, Raoul admitted to himself he was not yet forgiving enough to hear it. At least not yet.

"You'll have to let me know what things you'd like me to send to you from France." He said at last, glancing up from his things. He had to say _something_, and this seemed the easiest. "If there's anything you'd like me to buy back for you. I know there were things you were loathe selling. My mother's ring and the filigree clock with the little china-man inside." He said. Christine found a bittersweet smile forming; of course he would remember these things. "Anything from the auction." He was saying "Unless you'd rather _he_ do it for you. I have the lists."

"I'll pay you if you like." She said softly. He shrugged.

"It is no trouble. We shouldn't have had to sell them anyway." Some bitterness was in his tone.

"It isn't your fault you know." Christine said, "That we lost the money."

"No of course it isn't." he said with a heavy sigh "I know that. I'm grateful to Him as well, he didn't have to pay off our-" he paused, correcting himself "_my_ debts, nor give me such a recompense. I hope he has paid you as handsomely." Christine fiddled with her bracelet.

"I asked he give it all to you." She said quietly. Raoul straightened from his trunk, insult apparent. It was as if he'd been paid to give up Christine, a thought so vulgar he felt his stomach churn. "Don't be angry." She said quickly "Please don't. He would've given it to the both of us, but I thought because I was staying and you're giving up-"

"Never mind." Raoul said. "I do have my pride, but I am not so foolish as to think I can hide behind a worthless title. What he has given me is enough for me to find a corner of the world and live very comfortably the rest of my life." She traced her index finger along the design of the table near her.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know." He said. "For now, until the paperwork is settled, Manhattan. It should not be more than a few months. After that perhaps France, or Italy."

"You love Italy." She murmured, looking into the middle distance. He nodded. She wondered if she should suggest Sweden then decided against it.

"What of you?" he asked. "You're sure about staying here?" a dreamy smile formed, and she blushed, nodding. "I trust you'll see Gustave has a _proper_ education." Raoul said. The sting of losing his wife was dreadful, even worse was that his son would no longer be his.

"Of course I will!" she gasped.

"Forgive me." He said, trying to keep his tone even. "I am losing my wife _and_ my _son_. I think that I am right in feeling hurt, and wanting to express my worry for the both of them." Christine ducked her head, ashamed.

"I know." He sank down in the arm chair, head in his hands.

"My God why did you marry me?" he looked up at her. He wanted some affirmation that she loved him, at least at the time they married. He tried to think of an instance that he doubted her love for him and came up with none. Instead, she turned to the wardrobe, taking his dinner jackets off the hangers she brought them to his trunk.

"You'll have to be sure when you find a valet to tell him the lining of this sleeve is a little torn." She said, sniffling a little.

"Christine." He said, and touched her arm. Slowly, she turned to look at him.

"I did think I loved you." She murmured. "Truly. But understand I –"

"You don't have to explain yourself." He interrupted. It was clear that she did not love him, not the way that he loved her. Indeed she had been hiding her love for another man all these years and foolish man that he was, Raoul never suspected.

"I'll arrange for Gustave to go and visit you sometimes, after you move and are settled." Christine said and tried to brighten a little. "Erik wants Meg to be his nanny." At this Raoul snorted. "She loves children!" Christine said, thinking that is what he scoffed at.

"No, she loves Erik." He said, and his wife stepped back, shocked and clearly uncomfortable at the thought. Somehow, it gave Raoul some pleasure. He knew in his wife's heart of hearts, she felt she was the only one who could truly see and love Erik for who he was. This knowledge that Meg Giry could see him and still love him was quite a turn of events for her.

"She- _what?!_" Christine gasped.

"Why do you think she has stayed by his side all these years?" Raoul asked. He took the jacket from her hands, settling it on the hanger in the trunk. "She gave ten years of her life to him in the hopes that someday he might come around to her." He looked at her briefly. "Not to worry, my dear, it's quite clear who he favors. It's clear who everyone favors to her." Christine didn't know what to say then. Poor Marguerite! To follow so helplessly after Erik unable to win his affections. It hurt her to think of her friend in so sorry a state. "Did Erik tell you what she has done for Phantasma?" he asked, glancing at her in between folding things.

"No."

"Hm. No I suppose he wouldn't. Even he doesn't know."

"What's she done?" Christine asked curiously. Raoul decided he didn't want to tell her. Not simply because he knew Christine would feel guilty, but because he felt she didn't deserve to know. Instead he just shrugged, smiling briefly at her.

"Nothing for you to worry over. It's in the past now, and she seems to be looking forward to her new life."

"New life?" Christine asked. "Where?"

"She'll tell you if she wishes." He said. "But you ought to at least go and apologize for missing her performance. And perhaps have Erik speak to her. He ought to understand what she's done all these years for him." He looked at nothing in particular. "What she's given up for him." Christine nodded, watching him pack his things away.

"Do you need anything else?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No." he glanced at her. "Thank you though." She turned to leave, and she felt his hand on her wrist. "Thank you, Christine." She looked at him, eyes full of emotion. "Thank you…for whatever it's worth." Tears glimmering in her eyes, she bent, and kissed his forehead before turning and leaving him alone.

~O~

"Why should I?" Erik asked when Christine returned and told him to go and see Meg. "She's here safe. Her mama is pleased that she isn't hurt."

"You must go and see her." Christine said, "I really must insist you do." With a great huff, Erik got to his feet, pushing aside the paperwork on his desk. "When you do," she said, straightening his tie, and smoothing his jacket down. "You must ask her what she's done for Fantasma."

"What? Whatever should I ask her that for?"

"Listen!" she tugged harshly at his necktie. "Raoul said she'd told him a terrible secret, and that you ought to know it."

"If Marguerite hasn't said-"

"She might not ever say!" Christine said. "But Erik…Erik I think she loves you very much, and if I know you as I think I do, then I know you've not so much as thanked her for a cup of tea, much less whatever she's done for you." She was very quiet then. "Marguerite has done a great deal for all of us, and none of us have bothered to thank her." Erik was quiet then. Of course he hadn't even thought. But he nodded finally.

"Yes I'll go and speak to her."

"And tell her you're very sorry for missing her performance!" Christine said.

"I recall you didn't mind missing it either." He said rather smugly, and she blushed. Quickly she sobered.

"Tell her anyway!" she said. "Go on!" and she very nearly pushed him out the door.

Erik found Marguerite in the ballet studio on the upper level. He lingered in the doorway, watching her go through her routines, joints popping as she stretched and limbered up.

~O~

"That is a familiar tutu if ever I saw one." He said and she turned, startled. She wore her old ballet uniform from Paris. "What would the Ballet Master Stoenbruck say if he knew you took it?" she didn't say anything, remaining at the barre, resting demi-pointe. Her left leg swung up and down. "You remember a good deal." He tried again.

"I remember all of them." She said at last. "I was careful not to forget any, little as used in the shows." She glanced at him before looking back to the wall of mirrors, studying her form, minding she wasn't over extending.

"I…am sorry that I missed your performance." Erik said. "Truly." She stopped moving for a moment, wide eyes looking at him.  
"I am sure you were very busy." She said quietly.

"I will certainly be there for your next one." He went on awkwardly. "Your Mama said you were very good."

"I don't want to perform that number anymore." She said stiffly.

"What?"

"I said I don't want to perform "Bathing Beauty" anymore." Erik didn't know what to say for a moment.

"Would you prefer a different song?"

"No."

"Then what-"

"I want to leave Phantasma." She said quite bluntly, and looked over at him. "I won't bring in any new customers Erik, but Christine certainly will. I'm old hat anyway." She put a smile on that Erik read as forced. "Out with the old, in with the new!" she wiped the perspiration from her neck with a towel before hanging it on an end of the barre. As she turned, he could see several scars across her back, deep scars. Across her back there was a myriad, lacerations in the shape of a crop, others like the lines of a whip, some like the blade of a knife had been drawn across her back.

"What have you done?!" he gasped, taking her by the arm, bringing her nearer to the window to study her in the light. She ducked her head, looking anywhere but at him. Slowly, he turned her to face him. "Who has done this to you?" she looked up at him, her dark eyes full of fear, her mouth trembled and she couldn't speak for a moment.

**Some Time Later…**

Erik sat on the bench in the studio beside Marguerite. Silence between them was heavy. She had cried when she told him at last how Phantasma had gotten its start; how it stayed open when they couldn't pay the bills.

"I didn't tell you to make you feel guilty, and it wasn't my intention when I did the things that I did." She said, wiping her eyes, relieved now that he finally knew. He nodded, quite numb. "I know now that…you won't ever love me, the way you love Christine." She shuffled her feet against the rosin-dusted floor. "And I'm glad she makes you happy." It was all too much for him to process now. The thought of Marguerite, Little Giry, giving of herself to his mess of investors just for him-. He could remember each of their faces, their colleague's faces when they would come to call and see the progress on the park. Erik felt his heart lurch at the thought of some of them, men he knew were of ill repute but their pockets heavy with cash. Shrewd men who were not so shrewd at a well-laden table or at a stocked wine cellar. Good grief she might have been crushed by one of them. On top of all this (almost ten years of going from bed to bed, he mused), Marguerite had nursed her own feelings for Erik, doing all of these vile things in the dim hope that Erik would notice and save her. He thought of his love for Christine then, and everything he'd done to try and win her. Erik wanted Meg to stay, to protect her from the men who'd done this to her, but she wanted to leave, and he couldn't refuse her. He wasn't sure now there was anything he could keep from her.

"Where will you go?" he asked. "When you leave Phantasma?"

"Raoul has offered to take me with him, when he leaves." Erik was quiet then.

"That was generous of him." He said finally. "Will…will you accept his offer?" she nodded.

"Yes."

"Where is he taking you?"

"He said it was up to me. But wherever we go, he wants to do right by me, and marry me." Erik found himself pleased at this. Marguerite deserved a comfortable life. He might not have liked the Comte, but he knew that Raoul was honest, and would care for her as best he could.

"You must go to Manhattan tomorrow." He said. "And have a trousseau prepared. I will take care of everything. I'll see that you have money in the bank as well."

"There is no need-"

"I want to." He said abruptly, and he looked at her then, eyes shining behind his mask. "It is the least I can do." He paused. "Does your mother know? About…your past here?"

"No." Marguerite said. "I shouldn't like her to either." A pause "If Christine must know then I suppose I don't mind." She said. "But Mama mustn't know." Erik never kept secrets from Christine, but he knew Marguerite meant for him not to tell her if he could help it.

"No I won't tell either of them." He said. His hand rested beside her's on the bench, her two smallest fingers reached, just brushing against his. "You have been…a very good friend Marguerite." He looked at his lap, then finally at her. "A better friend than I could ever hope to deserve." He felt her shudder beside him, sniffling, she bit her lips and looked away, at her feet and then out the window. "I want…I wish I could say how grateful I am to you." He looked at her lap, then the far wall. "Nobody would have done for me what you've done. Not even Christine." His voice was very quiet, and he cleared his throat, as if he couldn't quite swallow. "I think…I think you are the bravest woman I've ever met, Marguerite Giry." He could still feel her two fingers resting on his, and he finally plucked up the courage to cover her hand with his, gently squeezing it. It wasn't much, and yet it said a good deal more than Erik felt he could at that moment. What could he say? Little Giry- no, she was not little anymore. She was a woman now. She'd given everything for him, and it touched him deeply. He knew there was nothing he could do or say to ever make up for what she'd suffered. No money, no dress or phrase or song could replace what she'd lost, what she must now live with.

~O~

The months slowly passed, and Raoul's lawyer came to and from Phantasma, always accompanied by the Comte, always with papers. Because Erik would be more than able to provide for Christine, there wasn't much to dispute. She didn't want anything, excepting the child of course. Christine wanted Gustave with her, and Raoul could not decline. A child belonged with its mother, but he still couldn't help but feel keenly the ache that the child wouldn't ever be considered his, not by anyone else anyway. It was stipulated in the arrangement that Gustave would be allowed two visits a year, an intolerable amount in Raoul's eyes but Christine wouldn't budge. She wanted him to be used to Erik as his Papa. So Raoul agreed, promising to send his address as soon as he was settled. All the while this was going on, Raoul and Marguerite saw only a little of each other. He told her he didn't want others to think he was keeping her as his mistress, and Marguerite agreed. To all outward appearances, whenever seen in public, they were two friends in passing, nothing more. Only Erik, Marguerite and Raoul knew the truth. They were only waiting.

"Where will you marry?" Erik asked Raoul one day. Christine was rehearsing downstairs so there was no fear of her hearing.

"A chapel near the Waldorf-Astoria." He replied, tucking papers into his briefcase. "We'll marry in the morning, and be onboard the ship by afternoon for a wedding luncheon."

"Where are you going?"

"Marguerite decided on Italy." He said "I've booked two tickets already; I've just finalized a sale." He dug through his case again, finding a folder. "Here is the villa I found." Handing Erik the papers, he stood beside him. "The grounds are extensive and it faces the sea. It's terribly private, but handy to the village." Erik looked at the sketches, and then the blueprints.

"This is fine indeed." Erik said. "Quiet and relaxing. It will be good for Marguerite." He said, and Raoul nodded

"I had thought Monte Carlo, but then tourists are so noisy, she was quite right in choosing Italy." He said.

"I am sure you'll be very happy here." He meant Raoul and Meg, but he was glad he did not say, for Christine had come in then,

"Who?" she asked, and both men turned with a start, glancing at each other.

"The Comte was just showing me the villa he bought."

"In Italy?" Christine asked, excited. "Oh how wonderful!" Raoul folded the papers up, setting them in his case.

"I am pleased with it." He said. "Well, I must be off. The last few papers will be in tomorrow." Raoul said, "Nadir Khan and I will be by at noon."

"Oh, noon is impossible." Christine said, "We are having lunch tomorrow with Gustave and-"

"Noon is agreeable." Erik said. "It cannot take more than ten minutes."

"Well, if you say so Erik, then of course noon will suit." She turned to Raoul "Perhaps you and Nadir Khan will join us for luncheon?" Erik and Raoul both held back a grimace.

"I am afraid I cannot stay longer than the time needed to sign the papers." Raoul said. "I have a pressing engagement to attend afterwards."

"You have hardly seen Gustave!" Christine blurted out. At this Raoul paused, frowning.

"At your request, Christine, I have not seen him. Were it up to me I would see him every day. You have clearly stated that I am allowed to see him twice a year. I should like his visit to be a proper one, not merely a stroll through the park for ten minutes before I must return him to his studies." He bowed at the neck. "Good day. Erik, thank you." He said, shifting his case and Erik knew he meant for his silence.

Of course it was a lie that Raoul had any engagements the next day at noon, but he couldn't bring himself to have lunch yet with the man who was taking Christine away from him, as well as his son. He was sure though, that Erik didn't think much of a luncheon with him either. Perhaps once the papers were signed, he would take Marguerite to lunch. After all he knew very well the next evening Erik would be bringing Christine to a chapel in Brooklyn to marry her. If they could so soon afterwards, then there was no harm in his. He wrote a quick note to Marguerite, and slid it under her door before heading out of the building and through the park. He knew they should tell Christine at some point, but finding the right time was difficult. It wasn't something one just blurted out, though to be fair, she hadn't been tactful when she told him she wanted a divorce…nor in showing her affection for Erik immediately prior. He decided he and Marguerite ought to tell her together. It seemed better than one or the other springing it on her. But he didn't get a chance to tell her. Not the next day, after the papers were signed, witnessed, stamped and sealed, not when he shook Erik's hand and bid Christine good day. Nor the next day, for they would be out of town for a week. Madame Giry was looking after Gustave, and Raoul had permission to spend as much time with the boy as he could before they returned, after all he was moving and wouldn't be able to have any type of visitors for some time. It was during that week that Raoul finally presented Marguerite with a ring.

"There is a jeweler right in Manhattan, and I didn't know what you liked." He admitted. "I should have taken you with me so you could choose."

"Oh no!" she gasped. "No I'd never be able to. This is lovely!" the emerald and pearls sparkled in the sun, the gold band standing out against her pale skin.

"Everyone always says diamonds must be for engagement rings, but I haven't had much luck with them." He said with a tiny smile. She kissed his cheek then.

"It's beautiful Raoul. Thank you."

"We'll go tomorrow, and pick our wedding bands." He said and she agreed. "And in a week's time, we'll go to church and be married. Are you ready? Do you have everything you need?"

"Oh yes, Erik was terribly generous."

"Did you tell him…I mean about Phantasma."

"I did." She nodded. "I think he understands me better now." She paused, "He wants to be at the wedding."

"What? Whatever for?"

"I don't know." She said honestly. "But I couldn't say no to him. Perhaps he wants to see me off."

"Well I can't think of a reason why he shouldn't come." Raoul said finally. "Not without being insulting."

"What about Christine?" Meg asked, "We still haven't told her."

"I know." He sighed. "I have tried to think of ways. It isn't going to be easy." Meg was quiet for a moment.

"It isn't, well I don't suppose she could be angry at me…could she?" Raoul shrugged. "At any rate, she must know. When they come back, the evening before we leave, we'll tell her." Marguerite decided and he agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

_Huzzah a new chapter! Just one or two more to go before it's finished, it is a short story! But a happy one in the end! Enjoy my lovelies! - darthsydious_

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As it happens, Christine was more shocked than anything. Erik sat quietly in the corner as Raoul stood beside Marguerite, her little hand in his as the Comte explained that he was leaving for Italy the next afternoon, and Marguerite was coming with him.

"Whatever for?" Christine asked.

"She is to be my wife." Raoul said. Sinking into a chair, she covered her mouth, confusion and surprise on her face.

"Your wife?"

"I asked her, and she agreed."

"I don't understand when did all this happen? When we were away?"

"The night of your triumph," Raoul said. "We were on the pier. You had already asked me for a divorce and she-" Marguerite squeezed his hand; she didn't want Christine to know why she was at the pier. "-She didn't want to work at Phantasma anymore, so I asked her to come with me, as my wife."

"Meg?" Christine turned to her friend, "Is it true?" She shifted from foot to foot, glancing from Raoul to Christine.

"I can't be alone forever." She said finally. "And I know Raoul. He's good and decent, and will take care of me. That's more than I could ever hope for in a husband."

"But you don't love each other!" Christine said. Raoul raised an eyebrow.

"I hardly think you're in a position to speak of marrying for love, given our past together." She turned, shocked, to Erik, who still sat in his arm chair.

"Did you know of them?"

"I was asked to keep silent on the matter until they chose a time best-suited to tell you."

"Please don't be angry." Marguerite pleaded. "Christine if I knew you would be so hurt-"

"I am not hurt," she insisted, "I am only surprised. Raoul never said anything, it seems as though all of you were keeping it behind my back!"

"It wasn't for you to know." Marguerite said. "Not everything that goes on here is for you to know." She paused, collecting herself, "We told you because neither of us liked to deceive anybody, especially you, before leaving." Christine finally nodded, understanding, or at least looking as if she did. Raoul bid them goodnight, promising Marguerite to come for her at ten o'clock sharp. Her trunks would go directly to the ocean liner tomorrow along with his while they would go to church. Marguerite left soon after Raoul, claiming a headache. Christine turned to Erik, hands on hips.

"Well! That is a surprise, I must say."

"Is it?" he murmured,

"Yes of course!" Christine said. "I never expected Raoul to recover so quickly, nor Marguerite to accept him." Erik frowned.

"I doubt very much the Comte has 'recovered' from his broken heart, my dear. One never really does."

"I still don't understand why Marguerite is leaving Phantasma." Christine sat on the footstool beside him, hugging her knees. "It's a wonderful place for her!"

"No it isn't." he said stonily, causing her to look at him.

"What do you mean? Of course it is! You've taken wonderful care of her and Madame Giry!" He stood then, going to the window that overlooked the park.

"No I haven't. I've neglected her terribly."

"What nonsense!" Christine said, "You can't-"

"No." he said and turned to her, quite sternly. "I fooled myself into thinking that I could take care of this place myself, believing I could sway the press and the bank and the investors." He bowed his head. "In the end it was she who paid the price and it is a debt I shan't be able to repay."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked. She stood beside him now, troubled. "If she has loaned someone money then surely-"

"No, you don't understand," he sighed, exasperated. "While Phantasma was under construction, I ran out of money, some investors pulled out and for a month or two, nothing went on. Then all of a sudden, one morning I came to the grounds to find workers back on the sight, working with such haste I wondered if I had been owed a favor someone forgot. It turns out Marguerite had gone to several of my investors…she had-" he swallowed hard, feeling the bile rise. "Convinced them otherwise."

"I don't- oh!" Christine gasped, the full meaning of what her friend had done hit her. She blushed crimson, as Erik suspected she would. She didn't seem to know what to do or say for a moment, searching desperately for some excuse for Meg. Ever a lady.

"But the trouble is, once you give something in this world, they expect more…or it has a way of twisting you backwards and tossing you out." Erik said "The more investors came knocking, the grander I could make Phantasma. The more people I could hire and the more money I could make." He rested his head against the cool windowpane. "If I knew then that every day an investor came knocking on my office it meant that night Marguerite would be giving a piece of her soul away, I would have torn this place apart brick by brick." He couldn't his wife, a term he never thought he could say. His hand came to rest over a book on his desk, gripping the hard cover. His eyes glistened with tears, rolling down his cheeks beneath his mask. "She gave herself, over, and over, and over again, without complaint," he flung the book against the wall. It bounced off a portrait and fell with a 'thump' onto the armchair. Erik chewed his bottom lip, nudging the leg of the desk with his shoe. "She did it without a word. For _me_." He said softly. "She let them…wear her down until she was nothing, for _me_. Let them…beat her, use her, in ways more dreadful than you can imagine. She's told me a little of what they made her do, and I am sick to my stomach with the thought of anyone doing such things to her. I am sure that there were worse things that she endured that she dare not mention. The things they made her do…" he trailed off, Christine did not know where to look, nor what to say as he wept quietly. He dried his eyes, sighing heavily "I never suspected, too blind to see."

"Oh Erik…" Christine murmured, finding her own eyes blurry. "Erik you mustn't feel guilty. She made her choice-" Erik stepped back, his expression terrible and still.

"No." he said, very quietly. "You must not ever say that it lies entirely at her feet." He said. "You don't know those first four years that we came to New York. I know now how she was driven to such a terrible act. You must not ever, _ever_ say she chose it, as if she were glad to take such a course." And Christine nodded then, trembling. Soothing her head, he sighed. "I know that isn't how you meant it," he said finally. "But I wish for you to understand why she's leaving with Raoul tomorrow." He said. "That is why I have given my blessing that she marry him and get away from here." He looked around at their private quarters, sighing heavily. "She will be happy at last." He looked at her, smiling a little. "as I am."

It was late when Erik finally set aside his music and put out the lamps, deciding his muse for the evening was well and truly spent. Christine was long abed, and he decided it was time for him to join her. As he shut and locked his office, he saw a light at the end of the hall, pooling from the stairs. On light feet he went quietly to the doorway. The light was from the studio upstairs. Marguerite must have left the light on. Tiredly, he started up, for once feeling his age. Knees creaked a little and he felt stiffness in his back he was not quite accustomed to. He came to stand in the doorway, only to find the studio was not empty. In the empty room Marguerite stood, her back to him as she rose en pointe, slowly drifting across the floor, arms beating like a swan's. In a breathless voice she hummed a piece he did not recognize. Her head lolled forward, eyes shut and her body followed the movement in one fluid motion. Toe shoes tapping quietly as she glided and spun. Every step was precise, well practiced and spoke of her training in the Paris Opera studios. He had forgotten she had been trained there, and he felt a stab of guilt then. Watching her in her element, the epitome of a ballerina, he realized how terribly he had neglected such a talent. He'd given her the cheapest, trashiest songs a person could write, and expected her to not mind. It was no wonder she didn't want to perform 'Bathing Beauty' any longer. He stood mesmerized, admitting to himself for the first time that she looked beautiful. Suddenly she stopped, sensing another presence and she turned.

"I thought you had gone to bed." She said, and Erik wondered why she was not startled. Perhaps too tired.

"I could say the same of you." He said and stepped further into the studio. "What was that piece?"

"_The Swan_, from Saint-Saёns _Carnival of Animals_." She replied and he hummed in response, remembering now.

"I was not aware it had been choreographed." He commented.

"It hasn't." she said with a shrug. He was quiet then.

"I am writing a symphony." He said suddenly.

"Yes, Christine was saying." Marguerite nodded. Taking the hand towel from the barre, she pressed it to her neck and face.

Setting the towel on the bench, she sank down onto the floor, reaching for her bowl of ice. "She told me you played a little for her, and that you should have it published. Will you?"

"Perhaps." He said with a shrug. "Christine wants everything I write to be published though."

"Some things you should." She said.

"You've not even heard this piece yet." He said, watching as she fussed with the knot in her ribbons.

"Is it anything like _Don Juan Triumphant_?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"No, quite different as a matter of fact."

"Then you ought to have it published." He looked indignant then, and she tried to hide her teasing smile as she looked down at her ankle, the knot in her ribbon finally giving way. With a grimace, she pulled off her shoes, blood soaking her tights and shanks. Taking scissors, she pulled at the fabric, cutting a hole along the arch so she could slip her swollen feet out of her stockings. He knelt suddenly, taking the rag that hung on the edge of the bucket, carefully washing her feet. She watched, shocked and touched as he tenderly cared for her.

"You shouldn't dance so long." He said gruffly, eyes on washing her feet. Once they were wiped clean of blood and sweat he took ice in the cloth and put it over her arch, then under her instep, alternating every now and then.

"Once I'm married I shan't have any time for dancing." Marguerite said. "I wanted to, one last time."

"I am sure the Comte will not mind you dancing." Erik said, and he was surprised to realize he meant it. Raoul did not strike him as one to forbid anyone of anything that meant something to them, not if it wasn't causing harm.

"I shouldn't like to embarrass him." She murmured. "I feel grossly unqualified when it comes to being a Comtess." She hissed in pain as he pressed the ice to her other foot. "Christine always looked like a baroness or a Lady." She murmured, looking into the middle distance. Blinking quickly she put on a smile. "Not like me. Once and for always a ballet rat." She laughed a little now. "Stinking of rosin and a stuffy studio."

"Yet tomorrow a Comtess you will be." He said, looking at her. She shrugged. "Do you truly want to go away?" he asked, frowning. "With the Comte I mean? I can find you your own home, anywhere you like, if you feel your decision was made in haste or-"

"Erik!" she gasped, and he was quiet. "I made my choice." She said. "My being nervous is quite the custom I'm told for a bride-to-be." She turned thoughtful then, a tiny smile. "In truth, I am excited, more nervous, but…looking forward to a fresh start." She held herself then, feet on his lap. "I've known all my life I'm certain of two things: I want to dance, and I want to be taken care of." His eyes glowed behind his mask at her. "I don't mean to be rich or spoiled." She corrected herself. "I mean…to be taken _care of_…to be cared _for_. Loved." Her smile was warm then. "I want…a friend who isn't my mother or Christine, who's like a sister. I want someone to like me, perhaps even love me if they are so inclined, to protect me and care for me. To tell me when I'm irrational and when I'm too quiet." He sat beside her now, admiring her frankness. "I see much of what I want out of a marriage in Raoul." She said. "I see goodness and honesty, loyalty and such gentleness in him that I wouldn't mind giving up dancing if he asked me." She admitted. "He offered himself to me when I was at my lowest, and I find because of this I want to give him my best." Marguerite smiled at Erik then, "So in answer to your question, yes, I am certain I want to go away with the Comte."

"I'm glad." She looked at him. "Truly." He said, noting her look. "There is no one who deserves so fine a gentleman more than you."

"You've certainly changed your tune since the papers were signed and mailed off." She said crisply, and he smirked.

"As it happens," he said archly, "I have never spoken ill of the Comte's attitude, nor his reputation as a gentleman, indeed the only thing that kept me from following through on previous threats to him before they returned to New York was that I knew he could protect Christine. Would and has." He said. "He is as you say, Marguerite," (using her name still took getting used to, but now he refused to let himself call her 'Little Giry' since she had confessed her secret to him) "A gentleman, good and loyal in every sense of the words." Heaving a tired sigh, she put her head against him, shutting her eyes.

"So are you, Erik." She said quietly.

"No. I am not. Please don't say such things."

"If I'm to leave tomorrow," she said "let's have this out once and for all:" she looked at him steadily then, "What I did is in the past." He made to look away but she held his chin with her hand, forcing him to look at her. "Yes it is. It was terrible, a dark time that for me is still not so far away. It still hurts to think of it." He looked pained then, but she continued "But I know it couldn't possibly hurt like this forever." She said. "Not if I keep looking forward." She released her hold on him, "Part of healing is letting go of pain."

"Memories are hard to put away." He said and she nodded, agreeing.

"But not impossible." She said. Erik marveled at her then. Here in the whole world, if anyone could understand pain and torment, of rejection, abuse both physical and mental, it was Marguerite. Yet instead of clinging to her past, instead of wallowing in her misery she had pulled herself out of it, and she radiated all the things Erik wished he could be: brave, forgiving, gentle and positive.

"You should be in bed." He commented finally. "Raoul will be here at ten." She stifled a yawn, getting to her feet, she helped him up.

"Are you still coming tomorrow?" and he nodded.

"Someone must give you away." He said and Marguerite looked quite surprised then. "If you'll let me." He said after a moment and she nodded shyly.

"I'd be pleased if you would." She said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't…" he began, then tried again "That I didn't protect you." He said finally. "I did mean it when I said you are the greatest friend I've ever known, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to learn of it." She brushed at her tears, touched.

"And you are mine."


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey, so good news! There will be an epilogue! *coughsoonasIwriteitcough* Here is chapter four anyway, enjoy! Happiness! EDIT: Thank you judybear236 for the PM pointing out all my blatant mistakes! Ugh. Ashamed of myself. What I get for writing at 11 at night and not spell checking. _

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The next morning at quarter to ten, Marguerite stood inside near the entrance waiting for Raoul. He had been instructed to use the private drive at the rear of Phantasma leading to Erik's home behind the park but within the park gates. Here she stood in the foyer, Madame Giry fussing with her veil. In her hands she clutched a bouquet of white tulips and yellow roses. When Erik and Christine came down, he paused for a moment, for he realized he had never seen a woman dressed as a bride before. He had seen carriages in Paris that must have bore bridal parties but not once had his curiosity been piqued to look within. Not even Christine had worn a wedding gown when they were married; she said it wasn't fitting, wearing white twice, so he had not pushed. Yet here today in his foyer, standing in the morning's glorious light pouring from the windows stood Marguerite Giry dressed as an honest-to-goodness bride. Breathtakingly radiant, the morning's glow suited her. Her frame held erect, her wedding gown smooth as paint over her arms, tailored to her slim figure and the very latest fashion. Her veil of gauzy chiffon woven and pinned to her ebony hair draped elegantly over her back and rested over the narrow bustle. He was reminded of the Willis in _Giselle_, but of course this time there would be no jilting of the bride. Erik was quite certain he had not seen anything so lovely as Marguerite that morning, and he keenly wished Christine had worn white to their wedding. He thought of his symphony then. Her skirts rustling as she turned for her mother sang like music, and he thought he heard a cello, low and clear the beginnings of inspiration. Hearing Christine's sigh of delight at her friend brought him back to the present. Smiling as she turned, hearing them on the stairs, Marguerite looked down at her white slippers poking out from under her hem then back up at them.  
"How do I look?"

"You look beautiful!" Christine said, delighted, "Truly, white never suited anybody so well!" she looked from her husband to her friend. "Doesn't she look breathtaking, Erik?"

"She does indeed." Erik said. "I shall be pleased to walk such a fine lady down the aisle." And Marguerite smiled at this.

"Why is he meeting you here?" Madame Giry asked, "It is bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!"

"Oh mama I don't believe in that silly nonsense." Meg said, "Besides it will be nice for all of us to ride together."

"I'm sorry I can't be more turned out." Christine apologized, "I wish I'd known sooner, I could have had something made especially."

"You look lovely as always." Meg said kindly, "Nobody could ever manage to look as beautiful as you always seem to be." Christine was quiet then. She had not meant she wanted to outshine Marguerite, for today was her day. She felt as if she'd taken the limelight from her sister for long enough, so she kissed her cheek and stepped away, as Erik circled Marguerite to inspect her appearance, mumbling his approval, clearly unused to so many well-dressed ladies in his prescence. The sound of a carraige pulling up to the steps made them all look. In another moment the bell rang and Christine hurried to open the door. Raoul stood there, a boutonnière was in the lapel of his new suit. It matched Marguerite's bouquet.

"Oh that reminds me, here is the other for Erik!" Christine said, Raoul held the box with the other flower pin, but he had not heard Christine, his eyes riveted on Marguerite. Finally realizing that the soprano was asking him for the other boutonnière he gave her the box, but turned his attention back to Marguerite, crossing the foyer quickly.

"You look beautiful." He said, "I'm afraid I couldn't possibly do you justice."

"Don't be silly." She murmured.

"I wanted to match you somewhat," he said, seeing her look at the flowers pinned to his suit. "I had to threaten Christine with a promise to bribe Gustave into getting me the information if she didn't comply and at least tell me what flowers you were carrying." He said, and they laughed then.

"We should go." Erik said then, "Or else we'll be late, it takes long enough to travel from Brooklyn to Manhattan."

The four of them and Madame Giry made up wedding party, aside from the Priest. Raoul was quite taken by Marguerite, seeing her shine before him. He felt as though his heart was fickle. Hadn't he felt the same when Christine was in her place ten years ago? But it was all so different now. He must not think of what his life used to be. His life could be just as good with Marguerite. He didn't want to ruin the day with such gloomy thoughts so he squeezed Marguerite's hand and swore before those in attendance and before God who his wife would be from now on. Divorce to Raoul was humiliating. As if they had not tried hard enough. He felt as if they hadn't. Now more than ever he wanted this marriage with Meg to be his last. He meant the words with all his heart "Until Death do us Part". Marguerite heard the conviction in his voice, his eyes trained on her, and she wondered if he wanted to look at someone else in the room. He didn't though, and when she had repeated her own vows, they exchanged rings, and shared their first kiss as husband and wife. All throughout Erik stood in silence, pondering the wonders of life. It was true, he had let Marguerite go, with his blessing, and while she had not been much to him before Christine had returned, Meg had been a constant presence these past ten years. It would be very different without her. Erik disliked change, but for Meg's sake, he put on a smile and congratulated them, applauding as Madame Giry cheerfully tossed flower petals over the new couple, seemingly oblivious to Christine's clearly awkward forced smile behind her. Raoul shook Erik's hand and kissed Christine's cheek. She didn't seem to know how to accept it, wondering if she should return it. She was surprised at his ease, his comfort at taking Meg's hand so quickly, settling her hand in the crook of his arm. That was where Meg stood now. Christine knew of course that she loved Erik, but having been at Raoul's side for so long, she did feel a stab of fickleness in her heart as she saw her friend blush and smile at the man who she once called 'husband'.

"Are you certain you must go immediately?" she asked as Meg hugged her tightly,

"I'm afraid we must." Raoul interjected, "We're to be onboard at least an hour before the ship leaves port." Meg approached Erik, rising on tiptoe she swiftly kissed his cheek and hugged him, which he returned. It was only a brief moment, but Erik wondered if he would ever see her again, and the thought made him suddenly find it hard to swallow. He cleared his throat gruffly, bowing away so that she could move on to her mother and say her goodbyes.

Leaving the others at the church, Raoul and Marguerite whisked away to the docks, Erik urging them to take the carriage and assuring them they could simply call a cab. They had not bothered to even change, not caring if it was indecent to board the ship in wedding clothes. Raoul helped her remove the long veil from her hair and she carried it in her hands along with her bouquet. The tickets in his coat pocket, they pulled up to the dock and the footman hopped down, opening the door. A porter stood at the end of the gangplank, looking them over with some amusement. Raoul wondered if he should have insisted Marguerite change, she was bringing a good deal of attention, all in white, but she was all smiles and merry talk, accepting the shouts of congratulations from the lines in immigration. Still, as they reached the end of the gangplank and stepped onboard, Raoul voiced his concern.

"No." Marguerite said with a smile, "I like everyone knowing we're married now." She wore her gown as a medal of honor; her ring shining on her left hand caught the sun, proudly displaying her newly acquired status as his wife. It wasn't that she was now a Comtess, or that now she had money and Raoul knew it. It was that she was a wife now. She belonged to someone.

The steward that presided over the First Class cabins eyed them with a look of surprise and disapproval before showing them to their suite. Raoul looked at Marguerite's giddiness at the thought of staying in first class with amusement, and then at the Steward who looked ready to complain at any moment. The door unlocked, the key handed over, and the steward looked at them.

"You have made dinner reservations for half-past-seven, Comte de Chagny; I trust you wish to keep these arrangements?"

"Yes, and we'll take luncheon at one o'clock." He said. "Thank you." And the steward nodded,

"If you need anything, please, don't hesitate to ring for myself, or any of the other stewards operating this floor." He seemed loathe saying the first part of his well-memorized speech.

"I shan't forget, thank you." Raoul said, and the steward bowed, knowing he was dismissed. Kicking her train out of the way Marguerite turned to look at the cabin. Raoul stood back and watched, amused at her exploration of the suite. She wondered at the attention to detail, the richness of everything. Her little hands trailed along the edge of the table, her skirts rustling as she moved to look at the sitting room, fine bone china vases and a Wedgwood clock stood on the mantle, there was a little tray of brandy and sherry for after dinner drinks, in the drawers beneath there was a selection of cigarettes and cigars. Two writing cases, filled with fresh paper, the White Star Line emblem in the corner and envelopes as well. Across the fireplace, facing each other was a small sofa and two arm chairs, a table in between. It was like a little house!

"People travel like this every day?" she murmured, quite pleased. Setting her bouquet on the table, she admired the fresh flowers overflowing in the vase. Through an open doorway was the bedroom, she could see a rich cherry-wood bed frame and a blue and gold eiderdown coverlet.

"So I'm told." He said with a smile, hands in his pockets. "Would you like to go up to the launch?"

"Yes I would." She said, "First I think I'd better change. All the smoke and traffic may ruin my dress."

"I'll help you." He said, and her face turned to one of shock. "You haven't a maid yet." He said, "Soon to be remedied when we make port in Liverpool. I've put an ad in the London Times for a valet and maid." He said. "For now we'll just have to help each other." His hands made deft work of the long row of hooks down her back and she stepped from her dress. A gasp made her turn, and then she realized he'd seen her scars. Stage makeup had hidden them during performances and backstage, but today she hadn't thought since her back would be covered. She made to move, not wanting him to make a fuss. He pulled her closer to the light, near the mirror in the corner.

"Marguerite." His voice was sorrowful, "My God…" His fingertips traced over one long scar. The knife was sharp, it had cut deeply into her skin, it was a wonder they had not struck bone. He could see her lower middle where someone had carved a word: _"MINE" _She saw him look at the letters, and ducked her head.

"Some of the others will fade easier but the word might not ever." She couldn't read his expression, and she grew afraid. She wanted to cover herself. How horrified he must have been! He'd never expected to have such a used and scarred woman for a wife. "I'm sorry." She said, and reached for her shawl, anything to cover herself. Instead she felt his hand on her arm.

Raoul couldn't bear to hear her apologize. He shouldn't have stared, but it couldn't be helped. Poor Marguerite! Her back was a maze of scars and lacerations. The letters on her back seemed to be the last straw, and he felt himself shaking with anger at the persons who did this to her. He took the shawl from her hands, tossing it aside, instead wrapping his arms around her, holding her as close as he dared. She seemed to fold up in the circle of his arms, fitting just so.

"You aren't angry with me?" she asked, looking up at him. Without a word Raoul pressed his lips to the closest scar he could reach, his fingers smoothing the skin, then he kissed another scar, and another, until he'd covered each one, his hand following his lips, smoothing the marred skin.

"You aren't ever to apologize for this." He said to her then, chin resting on her shoulder. His arms found their way around her waist again, holding her close. "I could not ever bear you feeling as if these were your fault."

"I will try." She said softly then. "It is difficult…the thought of belonging to one person now." She turned in the circle of his arms, facing him now. "Am I yours then? Only yours?"

"Yes Marguerite." He said, and kissed her at last. They forgot about going up to see the launch then.

~O~

**Sometime later…**

"This isn't how I wanted our first time to be." He said, her form curled up beside his. The afternoon sun poured through the bedroom windows of their cabin. Hazily, he recalled carrying her in there before they crossed the final threshold that joined them forever-more as husband and wife.

"How should it have been?" she asked, looking up at him.

"In the evening, well after dark. We'd have supper; we'd uncork a bottle of champagne before 'retiring'. That's the proper way anyway." He looked at her. "But this was nicer." He smiled down at her in his arms, she bore a rosy glow now and he thought of something then. "I never saw Christine in the daylight like this." He said, half to himself. "You are beautiful Marguerite." And she blushed redder.

"We'll be late for lunch." She murmured, as he leaned closer to kiss her again.

"I'll sort that." He said, and took hold of the pull, ringing for the steward. "Don't move." He said, and kissed her quickly, so she stayed where she was, beneath the heavy eiderdown coverlet. He hopped out of bed, taking his robe from the bench to answer the door where the steward stood knocking.

"You rang sir?" Marguerite heard him say.  
"Yes. If you would be so good as to send our luncheon here instead."

"Sir?"

"And a bottle of champagne." And he shut the door again. He reappeared in the bedroom hands folded behind his back, "I trust that is satisfactory?" he said.

"Oh yes!" she said, quite pleased she wouldn't have to leave their pleasant room until dinner. "But won't people talk?"

"I don't care." He said, crawling back onto the bed, he settled his head in her lap, looking up at her. "If they wish to gossip about my staying in with my new wife, let them." He reached up, stroking her cheek. Her long hair, unbound, framed her face, tickling his face. "I've spent the past ten years worrying what people will think, treading along the narrow line that society draws, letting them dictate what is proper and what oughtn't be done until a certain time. I don't care a fig what they say now."

"Within reason I hope." Marguerite laughed and he nodded.

"I am a married man, and plan on enjoying all the blessings that come with it." He said and she smiled. "Christine often spoke of Erik and his home as a kingdom that he lorded over, a kind of Empire." He paused then, thoughtful.

"What will our little kingdom be like?" Marguerite asked softly, and Raoul laughed indulgently

"I haven't told you about our villa have I?" she shook her head, "It's a terribly romantic place, I do admit." He said with a smile. "I suppose I wanted to spoil you when I found it." He shrugged. "One can arrive by the road, there's a gate and courtyard for proper visitors and things like that, but the front of the house is tucked into a cove, and angled to face the open sea. One can arrive by boat, which is how we shall. There is a place for swimming, and shady trees growing on some of the terraces. It seemed a pity to uproot them, so I left them where they were." Marguerite sighed, delighted as she tried to picture what he described. It sounded marvelous. "A kingdom," He murmured then, to himself.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," he said, "Only I suppose now that Erik and Christine are married, she does have her own empire; one does refer to great businesses as empires."

"I think I prefer our villa to her Empire."

"Yes." Raoul agreed. "And you must decorate it as you see fit, make it your own."

"I should like to make it _ours_." She said. "I don't see why you shouldn't have some say in the decorating."

"I think ladies have more patience for it." He chuckled.

"I'm not a lady."

"Yes you are." His tone was suddenly very serious then, "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You're my wife and a Comtess now."

"But-"

"No buts." He said, and kissed her forehead. "We shall make our own life now, Marguerite. We must not dwell on the past."

"I do my best not to." She said, "It is easy to say that we won't regret what we did."

"There will always be regrets." Raoul said. "But I do not intend for our marriage to be one of them." He sat up now, facing her. "I am yours now, for better or worse."

"And you are mine." He bent his head, smiling as she brought her mouth to his

"Yes."


	5. Chapter 5

_So I totally lied. There's gonna be SIX chapters. Here is chapter five, for you lovelies to enjoy! Reviews are always wonderful and make Gustave stop saying "Beautiful" ;D - darthsydious_

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**Italy – One Year Later **

"Madam Vicomtess there is a carriage pulling up to the gate." Opening her tired eyes, Marguerite sat up a little from the chaise.

"Thank you Therese." The maid bobbed a curtsy and waited for her mistress to dismiss her with a nod before tapping down the hall. Gripping the back of the sofa, her fingers digging into the cushion, Marguerite hoisted herself up. Trust guests to arrive when the day was hottest. Lemonade and finger sandwiches would be sent for. Perhaps cook had prepared something cooler to enjoy after supper. Marguerite's appetite was insatiable for Italian cuisine, especially the dessert _gelato_, their cook's specialty. Swinging her feet down onto the rug, she stood finally, skirts swinging from the movement. Raoul poked his head in the doorway.

"Are you coming down?"

"Yes, just a moment."

"Do you need a hand?"

"No, I'm alright." At eight months pregnant, Marguerite was exhausted. He went to her side anyway, sliding a hand around her waist,

"Are you certain? I can tell them you're resting."

"No, I'd like to see them. I'll be fine," she promised, and then smiled. "Your son won't stop kicking me." She placed his hand over her belly for him to feel. His eyebrow quirked and she knew very well that he was smiling at her particular choice of words. It meant a good deal to him, that Marguerite was pregnant. The day she had told him, he had wept with joy, so very pleased. He was sorry that she had to suffer as she did, swollen feet and back aches, the lot. Rest was fleeting at night and cravings sometimes so voracious she startled herself, and worried that she would be fat. But seeing her great with child by him, he did swell with pride, knowing he'd been the one to make her so. Any man might be proud to see their wife as such. Raoul was doubly so. For as much as he loved Gustave, he knew deep down he was not his son. It had been a blow to him, learning the boy was not his own, that Christine had lied to him all those years about the boy's true parentage. A sigh from Marguerite brought him to his senses.

"Are you certain you wouldn't rather meet them up here?" he asked.

"In our bedroom, do be sensible," she scoffed. "Besides, it will be cooler under the trees."

"You only want to show off the terraces."

"Perhaps I do," she sniffed, and then smiled. "Or perhaps I like you fawning over me. I know you." Raoul did nothing to hide his prideful smile, deciding to kiss her in answer.

~O~

Erik stood, sweltering in the heat of the day. He was sorry he had not thought to wear the linen suit Christine had packed for him.

"We should have taken an earlier train." Christine murmured. Perspiration gathered on her forehead. Gustave seemed indifferent to the heat, large eyes taking in the house. It was nothing like Phantasma, less ornate. Built in the style of any traditional villa, it had a rustic beauty that he admired. He wanted to be an architect, and read as many books as Erik, his father, let him get his hands on.

"Oh don't announce us, Therese-" they all turned at the voice on the stairs. "We're all old friends, no impression need be made." Raoul was assisting Marguerite slowly down the stairs. All of them stared then, Erik forgot himself and his mouth opened a little, startled. Christine beamed then,

"Meg, oh Meg look how beautiful you are!" she hurried forward and Marguerite shook her husband off, holding out her arms to her sister. "Why didn't you write? Oh you must be exhausted! This heat is too much for you!"

"I am tired," she admitted, "but I am used to the heat, somewhat." Christine held her at arms length,

"But why didn't you say?"

"We wanted it to be a surprise." Raoul said,

"I did," Meg said, "if he had his way he would have tossed pamphlets out of the carriage in the village."

"Have you set up the nursery yet?" Christine asked,

"Not yet, I wanted you to help me, you know what looks best, and since Mama is gone now…" she paused a moment, collecting herself. Sorrowful, Christine gathered her in a tight hug.

"She would've given anything to be here."

"Yes," Meg smiled, eyes watery. "Yes I know. But let's not dwell on what can't be. Will you stay? For the birth I mean, I'm already eight months along, I'd so like for you all to be here." Christine looked hopefully to Erik, who looked uncomfortable in his heavy suit. Even Gustave seemed hopeful for them to stay. He nodded,

"Yes," he said quietly at last. "Yes of course we will all stay." He held out his hand to Raoul, "Congratulations, Comte."

"Thank you." This exchange left both women speechless for a moment before Marguerite took Christine's hand

"There are refreshments out on the terrace, come and see our little harbor!"

"Oh it's wonderful here!" the soprano gushed, eyes sparkling. The distance seemed to have done the two a world of good. Marguerite didn't seem to hold any ill-will towards her anymore. She didn't quite see the point. The men watched them bustle off, giggling and whispering and gossiping. Gustave trailed behind having heard the promise of lemonade outside.

"Marguerite is looking well." Erik said once they were alone. Raoul nodded,

"I'm afraid I spoil her."

"Good." He nodded quickly, awkward.

"She spoils me too," Raoul smiled. "And you and Christine? How are you?" At this Erik paused, uncomfortable discussing private life. But Christine had told him before they left New York that it was perfectly normal for people to ask after them. It was the social custom, and Erik did want to try and please Christine.

"We are very well," he said at last. "Christine is often mentioned in the newspapers in New York, she is very popular." Raoul nodded.

"I send for the papers in New York sometimes for Marguerite to read, I believe she cut out all of the articles mentioning Christine," he said. "What about Gustave? Is he getting along well in school?"

"He has a tutor now," Erik said. Talking about the boy was easier; after all he was innocent and seemed not at all bothered by the less-than-normal relationship between the adults.

"A tutor?" Raoul repeated, surprised. "Do you mean the school was inefficient?"

"In teaching, no," Erik said. He turned to find Raoul holding out a glass of brandy to him. After a moment of studying it, he took it. Another social custom was men sharing drinks. Erik had never taken part in such a thing, but supposed there was a first time for everything, and Christine would be pleased anyway. Raoul poured himself a glass and then set the decanter down.

"What was the trouble then?" he asked, sitting on the corner of his desk.

"They beat the boy," Erik said. Raoul's response was only to raise an eyebrow. "Did you hear me?" Erik queried, shocked. "They struck him! They beat a child with a cane!"

"Why?" Raoul asked.  
"According to the instructor, he put a frog in a classmate's desk. He was taken to the headmaster's office where he received, what the instructor believed to be 'what he deserved'." Raoul stood and went to the window; from there he could see Marguerite and Christine, Gustave was sitting on the terrace, sketchpad in his lap. "Well?" Erik asked, incredulous. "Have you nothing to say to this?" Raoul turned after a moment, studying him.

"My first thought, when you told me this was that his discipline was not unordinary," he said at last. "My own schooling was similar, as was my time at the naval academy I attended. Punishments are looked on as lessons, the harsher the better for the boys." Erik stared, quite surprised. "I remember," Raoul continued. "In the Naval Academy, every morning at five in the morning we were to get up, leap into a pool of ice water and swim out before standing at attention, waiting for our officers to direct us next. Punishment for failing this task was to stand in the water for five minutes, and so on. Canings were an every-day occurrence, for whatever disturbed the instructors or officers. It is…I am sorry to say, treated as quite a rational thing," he paused, recalling the first time he told his father he had been struck by a teacher. "My father told me the instructors knew best, and I must have deserved the beatings," he turned to Erik, looking steadily at him. "As a result, I vowed, each time I was disciplined, to never send my own child to a private school, not if they were to be treated as I was." He set down his glass, thoughtful. "The point is my father believed because he had been taught in such a way, as had his father, and his father before him, that it was the way a boy became a man. I was upset because he didn't take my side, and didn't see how wrong it was. I am very pleased you protected Gustave in such a way," he smiled at Erik then. "I wish my father had been as sympathetic." Erik felt himself relax a little, and he wondered if he had really been worried that the Comte would be upset at his choice of action.

"Christine tells me I indulge the boy too much," he admitted. "I suppose she is right, but I only want him to have the life I didn't when I was his age."

Erik's confession surprised Raoul. Not so much what he said, but that he was saying it to him.

"Have you told her so?"

"No," Erik folded his hands behind his back. "She mustn't be burdened with such unpleasant memories."

"She is your wife now," Raoul said with a frown. "She deserves to know."

"No one has earned that right!" Erik snapped, turning to glare at the Comte.

"No one but Madame Giry and Meg." Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Have a care, Comte; I am here only for the sake of Christine and Gustave. It does not mean I seek your advice or opinion."

"I understand that, but you must realize that being a husband is more than protecting your family and taking care of them financially. You are her closest friend now. She has no doubt shared personal memories with you," Erik bowed his head, nodding. "And you must do the same." He looked up.

"Why?"

"Because she is your wife now," Raoul said. "It's what husbands and wives do. Hiding things only creates rifts and divisions." Erik sat now, worrying his hands.

"What if she doesn't like what I have to say?"

"If I know Christine, she'll listen anyway," he said with a shrug, taking the chair opposite.

"Has Marguerite told you everything of her past?"

"A good portion of it," Raoul said. "When she is ready to do so; I don't press her for it."

"And you've told her of your past? Of your father's tolerance to his youngest being beaten?"

"Of course," he said. "It is only fair."

"Was it difficult?" was Erik's next question. Raoul nodded.

"It was," he said. "It was something I disliked saying at all, I suppose because I had been told no one spoke of beatings or thrashings or whatever else forms of discipline were used. It was something that always happened but never spoken of. You were considered weak if you did." He looked over at Erik finally, his hands folded between his knees. "To share something so personal and private is a humbling thing; one never knows how someone will react. Will it change their opinion? Will they think less of you? I worried she would laugh at me," he chuckled then. "That was foolish of me, she told me so as well. I know now she would never mock me."

"What else did you tell her?" Erik asked quietly. Raoul paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. Clearing his throat, he shuffled his shoes against the carpet.

"I told her how upset I was that Gustave was not truly mine, another blow to my ego," he attempted a laugh, tears smarting in his eyes. At this Erik sat straighter.

"I am sorry that Christine lied to you about that," Erik said. "Truly I am," he picked at a bit of fluff on his trouser leg and then nervously tried to smooth down the wrinkles from having sat for so long. "When I learned he was my own…I didn't believe her. For the boy's sake more than mine," he paused, licking his lips as perspiration dripped down his neck. "But I think now if someone were to tell me he _isn't_ mine, I would…" Erik frowned, and then shook his head. "I don't know what I would do, honestly. And I've only known him for a year. You saw the boy when he was born, when he began to walk and speak. You saw him form his own person and mind, all the while thinking you helped create him." Raoul gave a nod finally. "You had more to lose. I am blessed to know him, and to know he was loved and well cared for," Erik said. "He speaks often of you, if you care to know."

"Thank you," Raoul said, and meant it. Erik cleared his throat, wanting to say more. Raoul heard and looked up from his empty glass. "Well out with it, man," was all he said.

"I never…knew anyone who was with-child," he said meekly. "I'm unaccustomed to social norm as it is. God knows when the time comes for the child to be born I would rather be anywhere but here." he looked regretfully at his own glass, empty for some time now. "But it is Marguerite's wish that we are here, and I will honor her request." Raoul seemed to marvel at this.

"You would do anything for her now, wouldn't you?" Erik looked steadily at the Comte, eyes aglow in the afternoon shade of the office.

"Yes I would," he said. "I will be anything she wants me to be to her, if she only asks me. I could offer her my fortune and yours, the palaces in Italy and Russia. I could keep her wrapped in ermine and diamonds if she wanted, but I cannot give her back what she gave for me. I can only give myself, and let her do as she will."

"She has forgiven you Erik," Raoul said quietly. "This isn't a burden for you to bear."

"I want to," he insisted. "I did not love her when she so wanted me to, I cannot love her now, she is not mine anymore to care for."

"There are many kinds of love Erik," Raoul soothed. He sat beside the former Opera Ghost. "You can be a friend to her now, I think she would cherish that greatly." Erik looked over at him,

"Would she?" and Raoul nodded.

"I think she would like it more than ermine in this heat at any rate," he said with a grin. "Now, shall we join the ladies? I'm sure they're wondering where we are." Erik nodded after a moment. Both looked at their glasses again. "I think another brandy is in order first," Raoul said and Erik heaved a sigh of relief.

"Gods, yes."


	6. Chapter 6

_OH. DEAR. LORD. _

_I am so sorry for making you all wait so long. I've got two other stories I'm writing, and basically I got sick for three weeks and then got pretty down and I have no excuse but laziness and writers block. If you're reading 'Duty and Honour' or "An Unexpected Ally', I PROMISE I'm not giving up on those stories, so the chapters may be few and far between, but I am determined to finish them! Don't give up!_

_As for Secret Kingdom, this is at last, the final chapter. Marguerite has her happiness, will Erik have his? _

* * *

Watching Christine and Gustave settle so easily into the role of 'house guest' made Erik wonder at himself. With all his worldly knowledge, all of his wealth, all of his influence, he still did not know how to act in public, even with people like Marguerite and Raoul.

Not that his relationship with either of them had ever been easy.

Still he was willing to make a start. After all he was Christine's husband now. Christine was good friends with Raoul and Marguerite. Familiarity with them made it easy for her to speak with them, easy to tease and be teased. Conversation flowed between the three of them as if no time had passed. Jokes were shared until tears rolled down rosy cheeks. Gustave, amid them all like a picture of goodness, sat sketching. Marguerite took the boy beside her, quietly admiring his work. He chalked it up to her ballet training not to pick up the pictures and make a show of Gustave's art as any other adult might. Compliments were given quietly, pointing out small flaws and helping him correct them if need be. He felt warmth creep further into his heart as he looked at her. Guilt still clung to him, but the more he saw her here in Italy, so well taken care of (and certainly so heavy with child) the more pleased he was.

After she and Raoul went away, Christine would wonder aloud of Marguerite would not fare better in Italy, in the warmth and sunshine. Erik queried what she meant. After all, the former ballerina was not a frail thing, she was rarely ill. Christine looked at him then, quite surprised.  
"Erik she looks smaller than when she was in Paris!" he remembered Marguerite when she was younger, barely skin and bones, wiry and gangly. While in New York, Erik paid little attention to her figure. Looking at her now, one would never think she was just a year ago a malnourished lady of the night. Her cheeks were rosy, her skin held a healthy glow of one that is happy and loved.

Erik watched the group from the armchair by the far wall with some fascination and no little amount of study. He found himself taking cues from Raoul, of all people. Christine was friendly, but she was a woman. For Erik to copy her would be downright silly, kissing cheeks and touching arms and hands. But Raoul seemed to know all the right things to say, how to respond, how to…well…_behave_. He knew to let a woman pass first into a room, to help her sit if need be. Raoul knew when to change the subject before becoming emotionally compromised, when to fill someone's glass and when to excuse the ladies so he could smoke a cigar. Aside from these every-day things, his actions seemed more governed by feeling and respect rather than what society dictated they ought to be. Marguerite disliked talk of politics (she heard enough of it in New York) so if Raoul and Erik wished to talk of such things, the Comte might say "You ought to show Christine the piece you were playing for me earlier, Erik and I will follow," and then of course they wouldn't. Not for thirty minutes or so at least. Erik took this time after dinner to put into practice actual conversation. He did not reveal any of his private life to the Comte, but he was able to speak of things he liked, the arts and business in America, of the new ships the White Star Line was advertising. In almost everything Raoul seemed to have an opinion, and wished to know Erik's as well. The simplicity of it astounded Erik. This was what most people did and took for granted, the ease of conversation, the back-and-forth light arguments and meeting of differences. He timidly brought this up to Christine who only smiled and kissed him, commenting that he seemed more relaxed

The other thing Erik tried to mimic was that of physical contact. Raoul often held his wife's hand or kissed her forehead. When they all went walking, Marguerite and Raoul each reached for the other's arm, an automatic thing it seemed. Perhaps no one else gave it a thought, but Erik watched for some time, not confused but wondering why he had never thought of that with Christine. Raoul also made a point of looking a person in the eye when they spoke. The Comte had self-respect, not because he was a Comte or that he had money. Raoul's pride came from himself, he was proud to be a gentleman, to like what he liked and do as he could. He was proud of his wife, proud she was pregnant. Erik thought then Raoul would most likely be happy with himself wherever he was stationed, whether a cottage or a palace.

Erik knew he was proud of his accomplishments, and proud of Christine and Gustave. But he was filled with self-doubt. There were times he worried they only stayed out of pity for him. Life would give him a nudge in the right direction when Gustave would suddenly come running into his office with schoolwork, or Christine boasting she had the cook prepare his favorite meal. These were the simple things Erik cherished, and wished to put into practice what everyone else around him had been doing their entire lives.

"_Raoul never smokes in the ladies' prescence," _Erik thought suddenly, as he found himself reaching for a cigar from the case in his pocket. He wondered why then, his fingers sliding the case from his jacket. Erik dearly wanted a cigar, and the night was warm, so excusing himself he left the party, deciding they would be well enough. He hadn't quite added anything substantial to the conversation, aside from commenting on his son's pictures.

Releasing a puff of smoke into the air, he paused to study the sky above him. Stretched out overhead was the evening sky; the stars were brighter here than in New York. Watching the lights twinkling at him, Erik wondered at a composition he was working on. It was peaceful here, Erik did admit to himself. He wondered if he ought to find a villa for himself and Christine.

Marguerite stood in the doorway, cradling her belly. Erik stood with his back to her at the far end, moonlight shone off the white of his mask. After a moment she said:

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he turned with a start, having not heard her walk out. "Being inside with all of us talking?"

"No," he shook his head. "Well, sometimes, but only because I am unused to being around people."

"Even now?" she asked. Erik shrugged, embarrassed. There was a time he craved human companionship. He still did. But a greater part of him, due to his isolation still floundered at social functions.

"It is not so terrible now," he replied. "I am still learning though," He tapped the end of his cigar on the veranda. Marguerite gave him a scolding look before taking a saucer off the table and handing it to him.

"Christine told me about your plans for Phantasma; you want to close the park?" he shrugged, casting a glance through the open doorway. Christine was reading now, Raoul was helping Gustave construct a model boat. For a moment, just a moment, Erik felt as if he were looking in on someone else's family. Pushing down that twinge of fear, he turned to Marguerite.

"Yes, I felt it was time. I only created the park to find her. I have, and the success of Phantasma has gotten to where I have more than I could possibly need in life."

"I'm glad," Marguerite said. Standing at the balustrade, she leaned against it, soothing circles on her stomach. "There weren't many happy memories there for any of us. It's a good step for you."

"Yes, Christine feels it is as well." He tapped his cigar again. "And what of you?"

"Me?"

"Yes you," he said. "Are you happy here? You seem to be."

"I am," she nodded. "There are times I worry I'll wake up and this will all be a dream; that I'll wake and be back in New York, stinking of cigarettes and the pier." Erik bowed his head, quickly looking away. Instantly Marguerite saw her error and reached for his arm, "The past is where it always will be and we can't do anything to change it." He turned back to face her, he smirked at her, though there was still hurt in his eyes.

"Who told you I felt guilty?"

"It isn't exactly impossible to know, if one knows you."

"And you do." He said.

"I hope I do," she laughed a little. "I lived with you for ten years; one does pick up on things."

"It isn't…guilt so much." Erik said at last. Marguerite gave him a look. "Not entirely. I am learning to put it aside now." He regarded her then, suddenly putting out his cigar. "May I tell you something?"

"Of course you can," she leaned against the high railing now, hands under her belly. "You always have, I don't see why you shouldn't now."

"It makes somewhat of a difference, we are both in changed circumstances," he said, looking back at the doorway, the scene within still unchanged. Marguerite followed his gaze before smiling a little.

"We are, but that doesn't mean we aren't friends."

"Were we before?" she quirked an eyebrow.

"You were going to tell me something," she said and he nodded.

"I am- have been- thinking on before, in New York, I wanted to apologize-"

"You already-"

"Please," he interrupted her. "Let me finish or I'll never say it." This silenced her and she stepped back, waiting for him to speak. Taking a breath, he gathered his courage again. "I wanted to apologize for my actions, I am a selfish man, and often self-pitying. I see that now, and I see that you offered what I wished for most, and I turned away from it." Marguerite chewed on her bottom lip,

"Sometimes," she began slowly. "What we want most is offered to us and we don't take it because it isn't in the shape we think it ought to be." He bowed his head, ashamed. She brushed a tear from her eye and smiled instead. "Sometimes, we are given what we need, rather than what we want." She looked back to the doorway; Raoul was looking up then, smiling fondly at her for a moment. Marguerite looked back at Erik. "And I now have what I need, and by some happy coincidence, Raoul is also who I want, though I didn't know it at the time."

"He wanted you though," Erik said. At this she blushed, and she nodded.

"Yes he did, and perhaps it started out of pity, but it grew to love, and that I'm grateful for." She folded her hands over her stomach and smiled up at him, moonlight illuminating her pale face. "It is good to be wanted, isn't it?" Erik felt the corners of his mouth turn up, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"Yes," he said.

Squeezing his arm, she left him so. Raoul met her in the doorway, taking her arm. Nodding to Erik, he led her inside, bidding the others goodnight.

~O~

It was a cry in the night that woke Erik. Such a scream that he sat bolt upright in bed. Already Christine was rolling out of bed. Tugging the hem of her nightgown down around her legs, she snatched her dressing robe off the end of the bed.

"What is it?" Erik asked. Before she had time to answer, someone pounded on the door. Hurrying to it, Christine pulled the door open to reveal Raoul, also in his pyjamas.

"It's Marguerite, she's- I'm to-" barely able to contain his excitement, though worry was clear in his voice. Christine seemed to know what to do, for she took his arm, smiling.

"It's alright, Raoul, go and fetch one of the servants to find the doctor. I shall go and sit with Meg until he comes."

"Perhaps-" he began, and then nodded. "Yes- yes."

"And after go and fetch a brandy for yourself," she glanced back in the room, Erik putting on his robe as if in a daze. "And one for Erik too I think."

Raoul hurried off to see to these things while Christine took her husband by the hand and pulled him along down the guest wing through to the family corridor.

"I cannot go in there!" he protested, though he did little to fight her.

"It won't hurt you to see her once before she's a changed woman forever," Christine said. She knocked on the door,

"Come in-" Marguerite's voice was strained. Turning the china knob Christine pushed in, still holding Erik's hand. There stood Meg, leaning, (hanging more like) on the bed post, the hem of her nightgown stained.

"This will never do-" Christine said and entered the room, leaving Erik in the doorway to stare as his wife tugged Meg back to bed.

"I'm to stand- the doctor said if my water breaks I ought to stand-"

"Tush, back to bed, you shouldn't be standing anyway." Erik stayed where he was, watching Christine and Marguerite move to the bed.

Raoul was suddenly behind him, carrying a basket of linens.

"Cook sent me up with these, she's having a few of the kitchen girls tear more up, just in case-"

"Good, set them over there-"

"You did send for the doctor?"

"Yes I told him-"

"Marguerite, my darling, how are you?" they all talked over eachother answering the other's questions before asking their own. Erik did wonder at this for a moment, somewhat amused at the disorganized chaos until at last Marguerite noticed him standing in the doorway. Awkwardly, Erik stood there, shuffling. He didn't want to go in. Erik did want to better himself, he wanted to form relationships and be a good friend but even this could not move him from the doorway. As if by some miracle, the hall boy came sprinting up the stairs, the doctor had arrived and was on his way up. Already Christine pushed Raoul toward the door.

"Out-"

"I don't see- it is my first born-"

"You'll only be in the way!" Christine said over his protests. "If anything should go wrong we don't need a flustering man in the way!"

"I most certainly am not!"

"No, you're not. But if you're nervous, then imagine how Meg is," Christine said quietly. Raoul nodded at last. He looked over at Erik, who was where they left him still. Kissing Marguerite, he squeezed her hand, wiping her tears away. "I'll be just outside." He said and took Erik by the arm, leading him to the hall. The doctor went in, shutting the door after him and that was that.

~O~

Muffled screams echoed in the villa, followed by calmer, coaxing voices. Raoul quietly paced the hall, tie and jacket long discarded. For some time they listened without speaking. Erik stared at the clock on the wall. His palms sweaty so he wiped them on his trousers before lacing his fingers together. Raoul bounced on his heels, sighing.

"Is it always like this?" Erik asked finally. "Long and…terrifying?" Raoul chuckled.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. At least it was for Christine, and I recall two births in the family that I was there for, a cousin I think…and my sister," Erik blinked.

"I didn't know you had a sister,"

"I don't," Raoul said. "Well, I don't anymore, she died." Hands in his pockets, he looked at his shoes, smiling a little. "She had blonde curly hair and brown eyes. But she was terribly pale. The Doctors said she would always be small, but she'd have a perfectly normal life." The cries from the room died down somewhat, and Christine's gentle voice was heard again.

"What happened?" Erik found himself asking. Raoul blinked, taking a breath.

"She did live, for a time. We all thought perhaps she would be alright. After all there are people in the world who are simply small, or frail, and isn't it those that live to be a hundred?" he laughed a little, chewing on his lip. "She and I were quite close, being the youngest. When she was eight, her legs stopped working. There isn't any other way to describe it. It was as if she woke up one morning and all the strength was taken from them. After that I hated to go away to school. Each time I'd return home, a little more of her would slip away, until she was little more than bones."

"At least she had a family," Erik said at last. Raoul paused then, nodding.

"Yes she was fortunate in that respect," he hesitated, and then ventured: "You have a family now too, Erik," and he looked up, startled. "Not just Christine and Gustave but Marguerite and I. She had always hoped you would think of us as such." Silence settled between them again, so Raoul went down the hall, Erik listened as the door hit the wall opposite. There was the sound of glasses clinking together.

Looking up, he found the Comte holding out a glass of brandy to him.

"I was supposed to save this bottle for when I hosted someone royal, at least that's what father told me to. I've always preferred family to society at any rate, so bottoms up."

Erik sipped the amber liquid, and all the flavor of a good brandy melted over his tongue, so he drank again, this time emptying his glass. He held out his glass and Raoul filled it again.

"One would think it was your first child," he laughed, then sobered. They both looked at each other and realized that for both of them, it was.

Neither men could ever be considered alcoholics, but a woman giving birth does strange things to men. So as the hours ticked away they slowly emptied the bottle.

They sat quietly all the while, listening and drinking until the brandy was gone.

"You always tell me things," Erik said, his speech somewhat slurred. They sat on the floor now, Raoul shook the last few drops of brandy into his glass before clumsily setting the bottle down. "You tell me about your family…and your sister…dead sister-" Raoul shrugged, nodding.

"S'what family does," he said.

"I don't tell anyone anything," Erik said unhappily. "Easier that way, people don't leave, if you don't tell them the sad things."

"Did it ever occur to you that they might just draw you closer if you do?" Raoul asked. He hadn't quite realized the profound effect his query had on Erik, for he was only speaking what he thought and found to be the truth.

Erik lifted his head up from resting against the wall.

"Do they?"

"Of course they will. The people who love you ought to accept you for who you are, that includes whatever may have happened to you in the past." Raoul set his empty glass aside, sighing.

In the wee hours, as dawn broke and sun began peeping through the drawn curtains, Raoul stirred. What had woken him? Silence! He sat up with a start, shaking Erik awake.

"What is it?" he groaned. The bedroom door opened, they could see the drapes had been opened, letting in the morning sun.

"Come in gentlemen, come and meet the newest members of the de Chagny family.

"Members?" Raoul croaked, a smile that seemed to nearly split his face in two. He helped Erik to his feet, slapping him on the back. "Come along Erik, come and greet the family," he hurried into the bedroom to kiss his wife. Erik stood for a moment straightening his collar.

"_So this is family,"_ he mused. It was much more than Erik anticipated, far more than he ever dreamed of. At first he wasn't sure if he wanted it. But as he looked up from the rug to see Christine standing in the doorway, her weary eyes smiled at him. Her rosy cheeks swelled as she beamed at him, pushing aside her curls. She reached her hand out to him, and Erik took it, squeezing. Together, they went hand-in-hand in to their family.


End file.
